


The Invisible Man.

by nothingbutfic



Series: The Co-Opted Life. [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Oliver Wood (mentioned), Penelope Clearwater (mentioned), Unknown sexual partner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:50:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5063623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/nothingbutfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percy Weasley has finally met his match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Invisible Man.

**Author's Note:**

> Set near the end of PoA, part of the 'Co-Opted Man' universe. Thanks to Flora and Amy for the original beta.

When Percy Weasley returns to the Head Boy’s office after rounds one night, he is perfectly ready to slump into his chair and busy himself with the stack of paperwork he knows waits there. His feet ache, he has the beginnings of a migraine and there is a crick in his neck, but he's not about to ask Penny to do it.  
  
He opens up the door with a small sigh, briefly closing his eyes as he enters. The sigh turns into a yawn; he shuts the door behind him with the gentle press of a foot, and loosens his tie and collar. It’s hardly the kind of punctilious formality one expects from Percy Weasley, but this was his sanctum once and is his refuge now, and he’s come to recognise his own limitations of late. Besides, he is Head Boy; he should be able to do whatever he wants, and isn’t that the point?  
  
“Evening, Percy,” he hears, and can’t quite place the voice. Percy lets out a small grunt of surprise as he tries to focus weary eyes on the desk in front of him, and stops, and stares.  
  
What he had expected this fine evening is a quiet night in; a dull night in, of tired eyes and growing boredom, and the nagging belief he’s forgotten something – a typical night in, all things told, and exactly no more nor less than he deserves.  
  
This is not what awaits him.  
  
Sitting at his desk, collar done up, tie fixed properly, robes pressed neatly and not a hair out of place, is one Percy Ignatius Weasley. Even his Head Boy badge shines in the dim lamp light, when Percy has neglected to polish his for the past few days. Percy’s – the  _other_  Percy’s – lips seem curled on the edge of a smirk, one eyebrow poised in delicate amusement, and he sets the quill down in the ink well, and looks at him.  
  
Percy gapes, and can’t help but feel he’s being found wanting.  
  
“You really shouldn’t go around with your tie and collar like that,” the other admonishes him, and Percy finds his hands responding to the criticism, moving to fix himself up before he forcibly reminds himself of exactly who he is and who that isn’t. “It sets a horrid example for the Head Boy to fall down on the job.”  
  
“I don’t know who you are,” Percy replies, and thinks he’s doing very well not to snarl or become too uncouth. But then, such behaviour has always been more typical of other (lesser) people, and Percy likes to hold himself to higher standards, whether he can meet them or not. “And I have no idea what this sort of prank is supposed to accomplish, but I want you out of my office. Now.”  
  
“Hardly sporting, Percy,” he replies, and the smirk fades. “Especially after I’ve done all this paperwork for you.”  
  
“You did  _what_?” Percy squawks, and crosses round the desk to place a hand on the stack of parchment and spin it to face him better, standing uncomfortably close to his doppelganger.  
  
“Your signature is surprisingly easy to duplicate, I have to confess.”  
  
“But this is monstrous! Criminal!” Percy is astounded, and worse still, the man is right – he holds a piece of parchment up to the light, and can’t even tell it’s a forgery.  
  
“The use of Polyjuice is restricted as well,” is the offhand reply, accented with a wry glance and the roll of narrow shoulders. “But once you break one rule, the rest follow easily enough.”  
  
“ _Get out_ ,” Percy growls, gesticulating towards the door with a ferocity he hasn’t previously realised he possessed, and sure enough, the other occupant of the room looks up, and when Percy’s resolve doesn’t waver, he stands with a fluid grace that appears surprisingly natural to Percy’s wiry frame, and pushes his (presumably stolen or transfigured) glasses up his nose.  
  
“If you insist. There’s still at least half an hour left before I change back, so I’d be wandering round like this.”  
  
Percy recoils in horror at the idea, and swallows. The other man’s grin seems to feed off his uncertainty. “I suppose I could always pay a visit to Penny. Not that she’d like to see you right now, from what I understand.”  
  
“It was a mutual decision to break up,” Percy hears himself saying, the same answer he gave to his parents in a letter, the same answer he gave to Oliver, and now as then, the compassion-and-knowing in the eyes of the person looking at him is almost too much to bear. He grips the back of his abandoned chair, and just hopes this is over soon, as he clearly has no power to end it himself.  
  
“Of course it was, Percy,” is the soft, gentle reply, before the satisfied grin returns, and it returns all too soon for Percy’s liking. “Could go see Oliver, then. He’ll be in bed now, so I might have to join him. That is, if I’m not Oliver myself.”  
  
“You’re not,” Percy retorts, sharp and immediate, eyeing him up and down. “I’d know.”  
  
“Fine then,” his erstwhile twin shrugs, and flexes long fingers, examining them as if still getting used to what he looks like now. “I’m not Oliver. That much is true. Think he could tell I’m not you, though? Especially if I crawl into his bed, let him have his wicked way with me, beg him to pin me to the mattress and fuck me hard until the morn-“  
  
Percy sinks back in his chair with a shudder, and forces his eyes shut. It doesn’t really alter the images coursing through his mind – Oliver in bed, propped up on pillows and making notes from the day’s training, or even trying to catch up on homework. His face would be fixed in the set stubborn expression he brings to everything, Percy knows all too well, quill clasped in a firm grasp, and as Percy entered the room and started to undress, he’d glance over, those brown eyes softening for a moment in greeting before Percy answered his chit-chat as simply and formally as he could and retired to his own bed.  
  
Oliver would stop talking, not even bothering to be hurt by Percy’s curtness, because it is an old and familiar thing, and Percy well knows that Oliver became accustomed to it years ago. He would continue with his writing; Percy would turn on his side and hunch his shoulders, facing away from his roommate. In a short while, Oliver would put quill and parchment away – he never says it, but Percy knows it’s because he doesn’t want to disturb Percy’s attempts at sleep, and Percy wonders sometimes if he would be so considerate of Oliver if their situations were reversed. Percy will hear Oliver plump his pillows, the creaking of the mattress as he slides under the covers a few scant metres away, and if there is to be any softening that night or any, it will be on Oliver’s part (yet again) as he awkwardly calls out to see if Percy will help him with his Charms essay the following morning. It is a pattern that has been established over the years, and will continue for the remainder of their schooling, such as it is; honed, refined and expected, and Percy says yes because he does not know how to say ‘I love you.’  
  
Percy stops thinking about it. He makes himself stop thinking about, and flicks his eyes back up at those that mirror his own. “Why are you  _doing_  this?” he asks, voice shaky, and doesn’t really want to know the answer. It can’t be worse than any of the responses he’s thinking of.  
  
“What, begging Oliver to fuck me? Haven’t done that yet. Might not work, actually. He probably would want to take things slow with you. Hogsmeade weekend and roses first, perhaps, then a spot of refined buggery.”  
  
“Don’t joke about this, please-“  
  
“Why not? You turned you into a joke, Percy. A sad, sorry excuse for a punchline.”  
  
Percy draws in a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and his chin juts up defiantly. “At least it was my choice to do so.”  
  
“And that’s worked brilliantly. You hurt Penny, you hurt Oliver, no-one likes you, no-one respects you.” There’s a small, tight grimace of distaste as ‘Percy’ looks at him over his glasses, and Percy blanches just a little – it’s the same expression he’s worn on dozens of occasions, but this time there is something more than tiredness and resignation in the eyes; this Percy is not impotent the way he is, and Percy feels even like a schoolboy caught out after curfew. His doppelganger sighs, and continues. “Even you don’t respect you, Percy. Someone once told you you could be so much more than the badge, but you haven’t listened to that, either.”  
  
“Ah,” Percy cries like it’s some kind of victory; he knows it probably reeks of desperation, but he has so few victories to claim he wants to make them count . “Davies told me that. You’re Davies. I knew it!”  
  
His own eyes blink back at him, and give away nothing. “I could be. But then, he could have told anyone what he thinks about you; not that most people haven’t come to the same conclusion.”  
  
“So this is it? You’re here to slap my wrist and make me feel worse about myself?”  
  
“No. I just figured you needed the demonstration. This is what you could be, if you tried.”  
  
“Yes, it’s as simple as clicking my heels and wishing, I see. I’ve heard about those slippers you can buy in Knockturn Alley and they don’t work. Good for fooling Muggles, though, I understand.”  
  
“You think you’re not a fool already? Look at me, Percy.”  
  
Percy bristles and turns his face away.  
  
“Look at me.” It is undoubtedly a command; the tone crackles with authority, but without raising his voice or shouting or getting angry. It is the kind of skill Percy has always found himself lacking, and looks despite himself – he cannot resist this man, who is everything he could be, but isn’t.  
  
“And fucking Oliver is a bonus, I suppose.” Percy retorts bitterly, and leans away from the understanding in those eyes as the other Percy moves in to cup his face between both hands.  
  
“Fucking Oliver is supposed to be your job, but you haven’t done it, so don’t blame anyone else for picking up the slack.” There’s an impish smile on Percy’s face; it suits him, Percy realises, suits me, and makes him? me? us? look younger. “He’s-“  
  
“Magnificent,” Percy confesses, and it’s comforting to finally do so. The other Percy arches an eyebrow appraisingly at the admission, but doesn’t interrupt. Percy flicks his tongue to wet his lips, suddenly nervous, because he’s saying it all.  
  
“Go on,” the other man tells him. “After all, I’m you, aren’t I? It’s not as if you’re telling a stranger.”  
  
Percy looks at him for a second, stunned at that particular trick of mental sophistry, before bursting into nervous giggles the way he hasn’t since childhood (and probably wouldn't remember those times even under pain of death.) He is silenced by a heady kiss, fingers tangling in his hair and pulling his head gently back. The kiss leaves him with more questions than answers and the desire to have it again, and the grip in his hair gently pulls until Percy gets the hint and raises himself from the chair, pushing it back. “You were saying he was magnificent,” he is reminded, and Percy finds his train of thought.  
  
“Yes. And I don’t mean physically – well, not just physically, although obviously Oliver is hardly an unattractive young man, as many others around the school have pointed out. There almost seems to be a cult dedicated to him in some ways – I blame the accent myself, and there is a lot of attention paid to the length of his eyelashes by some of the girls, but then I never found him especially feminine myself-“  
  
“Percy, you’re babbling.”  
  
“Yes, I am. I will, when it comes to Oliver.”  
  
There’s a laugh at that, bold and rich and free, and so unlike Percy himself that it tugs at his heart. “Go on.”  
  
“He tries,” Percy says simply. “I don’t think he knows how to give up. Not on anything. Not Quidditch or school or even people.” His smile fades a little. “He hasn’t even given up on me. He always tries to look for the positive in things – even when he stood in the showers for half the day, he came back to the dorms and declared he was clean enough now he wouldn’t have to bother for six months. He’ll turn himself into a joke just to give someone the chance to smile, and he’s smarter than he thinks, and wiser than he knows.” His throat tightened involuntarily. “I love him very much.”  
  
“Why don’t you tell him?”  
  
Percy sighs and pulls his glasses from his face to rub at his temples. “It’s hardly that simple. Besides, Oliver has…well. You know.”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t, if you’re not going to be any more specific.”  
  
“He’s slept with a fair number of men, alright. I  _know_.”  
  
“Kept tabs, have we?”  
  
“Shut up,” Percy mutters, because it’s true, and not something he’s proud of. “I didn’t even know what to do with my girlfriend. The closest I’ve come to sexual experience – or instruction, for that matter – is some of the material I’ve had to confiscate from the odd overly enthusiastic Ravenclaw.” He pauses. “And it all went straight to the school caretaker and I never looked at one page.”  
  
“Of course.” The answering sigh seems more fond than exasperated as his imitator sits down at the desk now Percy has vacated it, and it seems natural for him to do so. He rolls his shoulders and rests his eyes for a moment, looking perfectly at home in the space in a way Percy knows he never did. “But well, I’ve got twenty minutes.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean,  _I_  think you’re going to get under this desk and suck my cock,” and Percy bites his lip. “After all, you’re Head Boy,” continues the other young man, “and I’m sure you’ve heard all the comments before.”  
  
“I don’t know if I-“  
  
“Knees, Percy.”  
  
Percy sinks to his knees, and is quiet as slender fingers comb through his hair. The chair is pushed back, and he crawls relatively quietly into the space underneath; it isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s not cramped either – just unfamiliar.  
  
“Have you thought about doing this?” asks the voice from above, and Percy is all too aware of the proximity of the body sitting in the chair.  
  
“Yes,” he murmurs softly.  
  
“From which perspective?”  
  
“Both,” he confesses. “I thought about sitting in that chair and having someone-“ He swallows, because it’s such a filthy thing to say and he’s not sure if he can manage it. “Having someone service me like that. Because I was in charge.”  
  
“But you’re not in charge, are you, Percy?” is the question, and it’s not mocking, more a statement than a question. "You never have been." Percy swallows again.  
  
“No. I’m not.”  
  
“And who is?”  
  
“You are.”  
  
“And who am I?”  
  
“You’re the Head Boy.” He finds it’s surprisingly easy to say.  
  
“That’s what I am. Who am I?”  
  
Percy closes his eyes. “You’re Percy Weasley,” he acknowledges, so softly it can barely be heard, and a hand reaches down to pat him on the head, guide him a little closer.  
  
“And who are you?”  
  
“….I don’t know. I want to be different, I want to be better, I want to be worthy. I want to be everything I can be.”  
  
“Good boy.” There’s the sound of a belt being undone, buckle going clank, and the zipper is lowered. Percy has no idea where his impersonator found the robes, or the glasses, but they seem all too authentic. Percy finds that the Head Boy isn’t wearing any underwear, and yes, he’s quite hard, and yes, that is exactly what his own cock looks like, which is oddly reassuring and disconcerting at the same time as he leans in and gives it an experimental lick.  
  
There’s a light shudder than runs through his body at the taste of it, the smell, mirrored in the reaction he gets from above, and Percy moves a hand to rest on the Head Boy’s knee and squeeze gently as he laps over the head of his (own) cock with increasingly bold motions of his tongue. He’s never done anything like this before, barely even allowed himself to imagine it (and yet he always has imagined it and could never stop), but as he moves in closer and takes more between thin lips, the practical concerns of giving head begin to assert themselves, and Percy, ever practical, pulls off a little before he can gag.  
  
It’s not something he can find a manual for – certainly not at this late date – so it’s more a case of learning through trial and error, and as the minutes pass he finds ways to elicit the usual moan, and more – reaching to tease the man’s ballsac with a delicate touch, or suckle on his cockhead as it rests heavy on his tongue, cheeks hollow as a result, and he even manages to deep throat without gagging, bobbing up and down and leaving strings of spit in his wake.  
  
Without much warning, a hand grabs the back of his head and pushes him forward quickly, ramming the cock deep into his gullet and fucking his face with a few powerful, jerky thrusts of his hips before Percy finds himself swallowing come, acrid and bitter as it spurts down his throat. He chokes, eyes watering, and is released to splutter and recover himself.  
  
The chair is pushed back with the harsh rasp of wood against stone, and Percy clambers out, still clearing his throat; he has the feeling he’ll feel that for days to come, and sound like it too. “You could have given me warning,” he pouts, and is rewarded by an even glance.  
  
“Would you have given someone warning?”  
  
Percy doesn’t reply to that; the truth hits too close to home. His surrogate glances up at the clock on the wall, tucks himself back up, and fixes his clothes. “Time for me to leave, I think,” he replies. “I’m about to turn into a pumpkin.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Never mind,” he replies, straightening from the chair, and stretching. “Think about what I said, Percy. Think about what I showed you. But then, it’s probably not just Oliver, is it?”  
  
Percy’s response is far too quick and automatic to be strictly honest. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
“Oliver’s just one of a type. Like the Quidditch jocks, don’t you, Percy? All those muscles and broad shoulders and smooth skin and flexing and the ability to press you against a wall.”  
  
“You sound awfully amused by all this.”  
  
“Oh, I am. So,” he continues, and leans in conspiratorially, but then sucking cock probably does create an odd sort of bond between people. “Oliver. Who else? Flint?”  
  
Percy scoffs. “Don’t make me laugh. Or retch.”  
  
“Better hope I’m not Flint, then.”  
  
“Flint wouldn’t bother to do this. Flint would just fuck me, whether I wanted him to or not, and he’d do it as himself.”  
  
“Yes, you’re right. Cross Flint off the list of potentials, then. You consider Davies attractive, or Diggory?”  
  
“Davies...I never know whether to take him seriously, and he’s almost too sharp. He understands too much. Cedric…” Percy clears his throat. “Has potential.”  
  
“You’re a dirty old man, Percy. He’s younger than you.”  
  
“I notice you completely failing to honestly chastise me.”  
  
“It’s hardly a crime to want someone. Especially after what you just did.”  
  
“I doubt I’ll ever be able to forget what I just did,” Percy retorts, sourly.  
  
“Feeling the self-hatred already? Such a shame. Still, you’re nothing if not predictable. I guess that must be a real comfort to you; you get to dot all your i’s and cross your t’s.”  
  
“Oh, get out.”  
  
“You don’t need to tell me twice,” he snorts, and crosses to the door. “You could be more than this. You’ve had two chances, Percy. Going to waste the third as well?”  
  
“I’ll do whatever I deem best for me.”  
  
“Tonight before you go to bed, tell Oliver you’re grateful for his friendship.”  
  
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”  
  
Whoever he is, he simply snorts again, dismissing Percy to this life and the confines of the room. The door closes behind him with a click. Percy balls his hands into fists so tightly that his nails make little crescent shaped indentations, and waits exactly ten seconds before he races to the door and yanks it open, running down the corridor helter skelter to the nearest junction. There is no-one there, not in any direction, and he curses loudly inside his head, where he can’t be heard, before returning to his office.  
  
When he enters, and closes the door behind him, he sinks into his seat with the weariness of an old man. The night has left him tired, and frustrated, in more ways than one – his arousal has made itself known, and will not be as easily assuaged as the stack of paperwork. Muttering another curse, Percy yanks his belt undone, pops open the top button, slides the zipper down and wriggles out of his underwear because he at least has some vague sense of decorum. He curls his fingers around his cock – cock, he thinks, it has such a singular sound to it – and uses the precome already glistening on the head to lubricate the shaft.  
  
He falls into an old fantasy, a familiar fantasy, of returning to the dormitory after a long night – a night such as this even, and chatting to Oliver as he readies himself for bed. Oliver ends up turning, or shuffling, or something – whatever the reason is, it doesn’t matter, but he moves to rest on his side facing Percy, head propped up and expression just a little deliberately coy, and the sheets fall off his body more than stay on in the process. He isn’t completely naked, of course – Percy has a certain reluctance, even in his fantasies, and there are advantages to patience and discovery. Percy looks, and Oliver knows he’s looking, and keeps the conversation going, all very innocent and light-hearted until Oliver finally slides the covers away and reveals himself completely in all his glory.  
  
It’s not something Percy hasn’t seen before – communal showers have made sure of that, and he hasn’t an inflated sense of Oliver’s physical beauty, not in dreams or reality, so he’s not about to be disappointed. Oliver’s body is lean, and muscled, but not too much – not bulky, not like a Beater would be. Percy’s hasn’t the words to describe it, and feels a pang at his obvious lack, but Oliver just smiles and Percy just blushes, and Oliver clambers into bed with him and kisses him; his mouth, his chin, down his chest, and slowly, expertly takes him in his mouth and works him until he comes. Percy has always figured that Oliver has just the mouth for it, and as he strokes himself faster with a hand, he moans softly, panting in a way that could probably be termed whorish, if he had the familiarity with whores to describe it thus.  
  
Percy’s breathing builds, sweat begins to bead on his forehead, and trail down his face. He swipes it from his upper lip, tasting the salt, and the fantasy and reality coalesce as he comes with a muted sigh, spattering his climax in spurts against the underside of his desk.  
  
He straightens in his seat, shifting to sit more comfortably – his arse is a little numb from not moving, and the ache in his back has not abated – but the afterglow is somewhat pleasant, even so. Percy removes his handkerchief from his pocket with a flourish and mops his brow before he wipes his hand clean, and tosses the soiled material – little more than a rag now – into the bin that rests against the back wall. The house elves can take care of it. After all, he has plenty of handkerchiefs.  
  
He cleans the mess up from the underside of his desk with his wand, and settles back down to work, finishing the remaining paperwork in little under an hour.  
  
It is a quiet night in; nothing less, and nothing more, than what he expected.  
  
When he turns into bed that night, Percy Weasley stiffens at Oliver’s sleepy goodnight well-wishing, and turns on his side without a word.  
  
He licks at his lips as he settles down to sleep. The taste of himself remains: it’s bitter, and so is he.


End file.
